


of comfort no man speak

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Back to Middle-Earth Month, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Tar-Míriel is the Witch-King of Angmar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 06:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18114929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Tar-Míriel does not fear death.





	of comfort no man speak

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not by the Hand of Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5067949) by [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath). 



> For B2MeM, March 13th. The prompt was "Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs" from the Shakespeare Quotes card. That's a quote from Richard II, and the title of this fic is from the very same monologue!
> 
> This is such a good line that I had trouble coming up with something that could do it justice - I spent 4 hours on Tolkien Gateway researching every undead creature in the Legendarium - but I finally realized that, DUH, this is a Numenor quote about the Line of Elros succumbing to fear of death, and DUH, it's about Tar-Miriel, and DUH it fits into the Tar-Miriel Is The Witchking AU/theory!
> 
> There's plenty of great art about this concept, and some really amazing fics, too - my take is pretty short and only describes Miriel's fall into darkness. You can find the art on my [Witchking Miriel tag](https://arofili.tumblr.com/tagged/witchking%20miriel) on tumblr (I've got more in my queue!) and read the incredible fic by the creator of this concept in the link above!

Tar-Míriel does not fear death. She lives a life of little joy, wed to a man she despises, dishonored by her people. To her, death is welcome, inevitable: she is less of the Faithful, those who honor the Valar and accept the Gift of Men, and more against the King's Men who cower in fear of their demise.

Bitterness rules Tar-Míriel's heart, and what love she once had nurtured has long ago perished in the grip of her husband's hands. She is disgusted by his pride, his desperate need for obedience, his demands of her. She stands with any who oppose him. The Faithful serve her purposes and she theirs, but her resentment of their false humility and of their supposedly-benevolent gods sours her purity in their eyes.

Ar-Pharazôn is a foolish man lusting for power above all else. In his arrogance he enslaves a demon who calls himself Mairon, and soon it is the evil spirit who rules the island from the shadows. Tar-Míriel is loath to watch her throne stolen twice over, but she has a grudging respect for this demon who so bewitches even the wise of her land.

Tar-Míriel stands aside as Mairon drives her husband to madness in his vendetta against the Valar. The Faithful whisper and scheme against the rising tides of fate, but Tar-Míriel does nothing. She sees the path to destruction that lays before them all, and she is patient. Soon the sea will consume them all, demons and zealots and fools alike. Water-worms will eat away at their flesh; wild waves will be their graves; the wailing wind will sing an epitaph for the fallen kingdom of Númenor.

The greatest flaw of all her forefathers was their fear of their Doom. Tar-Míriel has none of this terror in her bones; her suffering has washed away her feelings as sure as the tide washes away the skeletons of shipwrecked sailors.

Ar-Pharazôn builds his fleet and sails away in attempt to battle his fate. Tar-Míriel does not know if the faraway land of Aman awaits him at the end of his voyage, with the might of the Valar ready to strike him down. She does not care: the end of her kingdom is here regardless of whether he returns.

She stands aside as the demon of his undoing claims all Númenor for himself. He is Tar-Mairon, king of Men, and she is nothing.

Tar-Mairon comes to her bedchamber that evening, and Tar-Míriel is tired, tired, tired. She expects his entitlement to her body, his claim of lordship over her being as well as her birthright. She is surprised by what he asks of her.

Tar-Mairon is candid with her. He respects her hardened heart and does not force himself into her bed. He sympathizes with her plight, and offers her an alternative.

Tar-Míriel is no fool. She knows the game he plays, and knows that to him, she is but a pawn, a piece to be sacrificed for his greater plan. And yet, she knows now how his honeyed words poisoned Ar-Pharazôn's mind. The offer is tempting, and she refuses him with some reluctance. She has no interest in becoming vassal to another powerful man, no matter his relative divinity and all he promises. No man has fulfilled a vow to her in all her two hundred and two years.

She expects him to turn violent at her refusal, force her into servitude as her husband had. Instead he smiles, and assures her the offer stands should she change her mind. He departs, leaving her more disturbed than she has been in decades.

The waves rise suddenly, and Tar-Míriel knows the end is upon them. She watches as the Faithful take their flight and the wicked folk of the island cower in fear. She cannot find sympathy in her heart. Even the cries of the babes fail to move her spirit.

Tar-Mairon is nowhere to be found. His people turn to the royal house for help, but Tar-Míriel has nothing to offer. She opens the doors of the palace and lets them inside, but such a display of mercy is meaningless. The sea will swallow them all.

Tar-Míriel dresses herself in her finest gown and drapes herself in jewelry. Her fingers she leaves unadorned: she will perish with hands clean of gilt. She dismisses her servants and ascends to the Meneltarma. It is a holy place, she remembers, but all holiness has deserted the island. The mountain is meant to be silent save for prayer, but Tar-Míriel has no qualms in letting her laughter fly in the wind. Any worship here has always been in vain.

She does not fear death. As the sea rises and the earth quakes, Tar-Míriel welcomes her end.

Lightning sets fire to the sky, and in an instant, Tar-Mairon appears before her. He wears a single ring upon his fingers, a golden band unadorned with jewels. In his other hand he holds another ring, a ruby embedded in its silver band.

Tar-Míriel stares him down, unafraid, unashamed. She does not reconsider, even in the face of ultimate destruction.

"I will die a free woman," she declares, "and not live as a thrall to a demon-king."

"You shall not be my thrall, but my commander," Tar-Mairon hisses. His voice cracks in the thunder, and the pouring rain fizzles and evaporates as it hits his skin. "Join me, Míriel. You shall be not a maiden, but a mage. You shall be not a consort, but a queen."

"I welcome death," she reaffirms. "Your offer of immortality does not sway me."

"Time runs short," Tar-Mairon warns. The ground shakes more violently than before; the sea has devoured the city below and rises up to the mountain. "I care not if you live or die. I only wish for your strength at my side."

A mighty crack: the earth buckles beneath her. Saltwater surrounds her ankles.

And Tar-Míriel decides that she does not want to die.

Tar-Mairon's form flickers before her, vanishing even as she slips his ring on her finger. A wave crashes into her, and Tar-Míriel breathes her last, fearless to the end.

* * *

She wakes in darkness.

She is not alive, but neither is she dead. Míriel feels power in the essence that makes up her form, like fire running through her veins. She is robed in black, lying in an ancient crypt. Upon her finger is the ruby ring.

Míriel rises. Before her stands Tar-Mairon. His form is unrecognizable, but she knows his spirit.

"My queen," he says. If he could smile, she knows he would be.

"No," Míriel rasps in a voice that is not her own. "I am your king."

Tar-Mairon bows his head. "My king. What do you ask of me, as your first reward for your service?"

The island of Númenor has sunk into the sea. The world is changed, and she feels the thrum of power in her soul. She is a commander now, and she needs a force of her own, mightier even than the storms of the Valar.

"Give me a kingdom that I may rule, and men to do my bidding," she commands. "I shall raze your enemies to the ground, and destroy the remnant of those who have wronged us both."

"A land in the North I shall give you," Tar-Mairon agrees, "and a force to rival the host of the drowned sailors who followed Pharazôn in vain. You shall be leader of my Ring-bearing lords, and no man shall strike you down. You are witch and general. You are King Míriel."

King Míriel, she thinks with a ghostly smile. Yes. This is who she was always meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).
> 
> ETA: I had to turn on comment moderation for this fic because I got a few people whining about how they don't like the AU. Thank you to all the sincere commenters, you mean the world, and if you hate the fic then don't fucking read it!! Write your own shit!!


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